


We Need To Talk

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Appropriately dealt with, BDSM, Consent Issues, M/M, NO rape, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe's ex-boyfriend, once Ben Organa-Solo, comes back with Han and co. Not everyone is pleased to see him, and Poe is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Need To Talk

**Author's Note:**

> The backstory to this verse is Ben fell to the Dark Side much later. He was already in (or had been in) a consensual, mutual relationship with Poe before the fall. WARNINGS for Poe making some serious mistakes and having some drastic lapses in judgement as a dominant/top/sadist. Counter-warning that it doesn’t go unchecked, and that the endgoal is what you expect from me. BDSM elements. Nothing underage. No non-consent, but some consent ‘issues’. Some mention of Snoke’s influence on Ben/Kylo. Caveat lector. I’m happy to set minds at ease if you need to know details before reading. Hopefully you realise I absolutely do NOT approve of this kind of action, but it happens in reality, so. Also, I am not making this into a verse.

Poe likes to think of himself as a ‘good’ man, or better than… no. Not ‘better than most’. That’s arrogant, and he’s… just better than some. Better than the worst. On the side of the great, galactic see-saw in the sky, he falls on the better seat.

No. Wait. See-saws teeter back and forth. Not a good analogy… whatever.

Point being, he knows Right from Wrong. And he tries to do The Right Thing. That’s what makes you a good man: doing the right thing. And the right thing in this situation has to be accept that Ben - Kylo - whatever the hell they’re supposed to call him, now - has defected back to the Light and Good and True.

That’s what they’re told. That’s what the official word is, from Up High. Kylo Ren, Generals Organa and Solo’s son, has come home: prodigal, repentant, and bearing gifts of intel and his Force powers. When the _Falcon_ flew back with two extra passengers aboard - both Force-sensitive - the mood on base had been mixed.

Kylo Ren had been responsible - personally - for the deaths of many a friend and loved one. Even wider than that, the death count on his head must have been astronomical.

 **Soldier**. That’s what he tells himself. _Soldier_. How many people has Poe killed? Like, today alone? How many people did he blow up with the Starkiller? It’s different. Warfare is not murder. Even if the side you’re fighting for is _wrong_. It’s… it’s complicated.

Very few people are happy to see the Organa-Solo boy home.

Poe isn’t sure if he’s one of them or not.

***

For the first few weeks, no one sees much of the twice-turned Jedi. Poe thinks he’s still a Jedi, because he isn’t going around calling himself _Darth_ , but then he’s not versed enough in Force-sensitive lore to know, and he isn’t going to ask General Organa.

It wouldn’t go down well, would it? At the end of a briefing: “By the way, is your son a Sith, or did he get better?”

So. Jedi. Works as much as anything else.

He’s seen briefly in meetings, even more briefly at meal times, and he’s in the Organa-Solo household when Poe has to make his very occasional visits.

Poe isn’t sure how he feels about that, because - on the one hand… he really doesn’t want to have to be polite to his ex who tortured him. You know? But on the other hand, he sort of wants to see him squirm. A bit. Maybe. Because _he did torture him_ , so he’s… he wants some acknowledgement of the fact. He wants to see some guilt, and also he’s tired of walking on eggshells around the base. He keeps thinking that any minute now he’ll walk into him, and he doesn’t know how he’ll react.

So. After a few weeks of absolute torture… he decides to be the Bigger (if shorter) Man. He calls by the Organa-Solo household, and smiles up at Han. (Politely. They’ve never really gotten along well. Poe has no idea if that was because Han thought he was a bad boyfriend, or Han just hated him for some other reason, or maybe Han just doesn’t like anyone who isn’t Leia or Chewbacca.) 

“Leia’s not here.”  


“It’s not G– Leia I am here to see.”  


“Uh-huh.”  


“Is Kylo in?”  


“Ben’s in.”  


The naming is deliberate, and does not at all indicate what the man wants to be known as, Poe is all too sure. 

“…can I talk to him?”  


“What are you, five?”  


Poe tries very hard to keep his smile on his face. “May I enter the house to speak to him, or would you ask him if he would like to speak to me?”

“BEN.”   


There’s a muffled noise, then Poe can see black-socked toes some way up the stairs. “What?”

“Dameron boy wants to talk to you.”  


“…now?”  


Poe watches as the toes curl around the edge of the step. He always did have expressive digits.

“No, five weeks ago. Yes, now. You want me to turn him away or not?”  


“No, I… just… down in a sec.”  


Han rakes his eyes over Poe one last time, then walks off. Poe feels like he’s eighteen again, and somehow the cause of all of Ben Organa-Solo’s problems. Han had blamed him, no doubt. He’d always been wary of their age difference, which was ridiculous when you thought about it. He was ten years older than his wife.

Han’s son runs down the stairs, then pauses in the doorway. He has no shoes on, still, but he’s still wearing… pretty much black. Black socks. Black pants. A long sleeved shirt in an indigo approaching black. Something shrugged on over it. His eyes are confused and his face is pale, and he looks just a shadow of the boy he’d been. Instead of growing up, he’s grown… well. Out. He’s broader, and a little taller still. His eyes look halfway between worried teen and war-weary veteran, and he fusses his hair back behind his ear with one hand. 

“Poe.”  


“…Kylo.”  


He waits to be corrected, but Han’s gone, and Kylo (must be right, then), just swallows and grits his teeth. 

“…was there something I could help you with?”  


“I thought maybe we could form some kind of… you know. Professional relationship.” Now he’s standing on his ex-boyfriend’s doorstep, the words sound dumb as he says them, and he thinks this was the worst idea ever. Worst. Idea. Ever. And he’s made some dumb ones, over the years.  


But how else was he going to get to talk to him?

“Al-right. Uh. How… do you want to do that?”  


“Well. If you’ve got any problem with me, we talk it through. But otherwise: we agree we can act like adults. And not hide from one another. Not pretending things didn’t happen, just… realising they don’t matter.” Don’t matter. They do matter, but Poe doesn’t know how better to word it.  


“Alright. I accept.”  


“So. Truce?” Sort of?  


Kylo nods. “Truce.”

***

It sort of works. Sort of. Maybe. 

After the talk, Kylo’s seen more and more about base. Poe still hears whispers and dark comments at times, but people mostly just tolerate him like a bad smell, or a necessary evil. Kylo shows no sign of trying to re-integrate with society, he’s just… not hidden.

Like a droid, maybe. Existing, but not always with people. 

He and Poe nod politely at one another, and will say brief words, and that’s that.

It irks him, still. He’s still angry. He’s still not happy. Kylo’s like this itch in his side and he can’t quite scratch it, but _he_ called for the truce, so he has to respect it. After all, a life lived hating is a sad life. Even without the Force, such a negative emotion is draining. Poe wants to be happy, so he tells himself he is.

***

He remembers back when they were young. They’d grown up orbiting one another; based together, based apart, back together again. Ben had been one of the more solid of his flexible fixtures over the years, and they’d hit it off pretty much from day one.

He remembers the times they’d spend together in the sun, dodging responsibilities. He remembers the times they’d spent in the dark, whispering secrets back and forth.

He remembers the time they kissed at last, and both of them swore the other one started it. 

Remembers, too, their first times. Their first, awkward fumbles. The desperate attempt to find private places to enjoy one another. The accidental way a bit of joking turned into something ridiculously hot, and how that had spiralled into depth after depth of depravity.

Remembers: “I don’t need a safeword, I have the Force.” Remembers thinking that was right, because he could never make Ben do something he didn’t want to. No matter how many ropes or chains or cuffs he used, no matter what instruments of stinging bliss they played with, the invisible third member of their relationship was always there, ready to break the transparisteel, a safety net that always sort of annoyed Poe because it meant it wasn’t _real_.

And it had rankled. Of course it had rankled. He could never be sure what Ben would be prepared to do if he didn’t have his safety net. He could never be satisfied he’d gone far enough, because there was no _too_ far, so he couldn’t brush against it. 

And then - then it all stopped. Things went bad - and now he can see Snoke’s distant fingers pulling strings - they fell apart, things happened, and Ben Organa-Solo left his home, his family, his friends and his sort-of-still-maybe boyfriend behind.

Poe remembers.

He remembers wondering if he was in any way to blame.

***

It had been a rough day. It had. No two ways about it. They’d taken some heavy flak in the dogfight. One didn’t come home. One did, but they’d never fly again. The whole base knew, and as such, no one was stupid enough to say anything at the bar.

Drinking over grief was always… ill-advised, but sometimes necessary. It was a ridiculous coping strategy, but if you banned pilots from doing it, they potentially got up to worse. The few shoves and growls were normally kept within-ranks, and the next day all was forgiven anyway. Or the day after. It was an unspoken thing, an honour thing, and Poe wasn’t about to stop it.

Poe normally doesn’t get involved in this, even though there’s no ranks in the bar, or in the gym. It’s still hard for him to turn off his In Charge mode, and people can’t relax with their Commander around. But this one’s been hard, and he grabs a bottle, and he leaves the bar and goes out to the edge of the base proper.

He doesn’t expect to have company, but maybe he should. Ben - Ben always used to wander at nights, when he couldn’t sleep. Back then he’d had to slip out from under his parents’ noses, but now he’s All Grown Up he can do whatever the hell he wants. As can Poe.

“This… tree taken?”  


Kylo snorts. “I don’t think a tree _can_ be taken.”

“Can with an axe.”  


“…is it even still a tree, then?”  


Semantics. Poe sits next to the tree, and Kylo continues to lie on his back in the dew-damp grass, staring up through the leaves to the sky above. 

Drink. Drink. Drink.

“Do you want company, or…?”  


Poe snorts. “You know what happened?”

“I heard.”  


“Yeah. Well.”  


“…doesn’t answer my question.”  


“You can’t bring her back, you can’t undo what happened, you can’t make it okay, and I don’t want to feel better about it.” He’s not sure why he’s being this blunt. Normally he doesn’t even say this much: if he can’t be positive, he’s formal, polite, and refuses to comment. Something about the other man is grating on his nerves, and he isn’t quite sure what it is.  


“I’ll… go.”  


“Did I ask you to?”  


“No. But you don’t seem to want me around.” Kylo sits up, and there’s strands of green in his dark locks.   


“I sat here, didn’t I?”  


“Maybe you liked that tree.”  


“For.. for Force’s sake! Why would I sit here if I didn’t want to talk to you?”  


“Maybe to make me _go away_?” Kylo bites back. “I seem to recall you enjoyed fucking with my head somewhat. You’ll forgive me for expecting the behaviour to still be in play, and apparently it is.”  


“That was ten years ago.”  


“It’s apparently still how you operate.”   


Kylo’s propped up on his hands, bent at the waist, and Poe rolls his eyes. He bites the cap off the bottle and takes a long glug. He _is_ fucking with Kylo, now. He’s left him with no response, knowing the other man’s naturally argumentative and competitive side will keep him pinned and refusing to back down.

It used to be a fun game, it’s less so, now. He remembers how the tables were turned on the _Finalizer_ , how it had felt like every love-game they’d ever indulged in had been turned into a vibroblade to cut through his gut. He remembers, and he drinks, and Kylo watches him drink.

Move, counter move, sit and wait. 

“Is there something you want to say to me?”   


Poe smiles. _Who talks first._ Apparently Kylo cracks, this time. “Nope.”

“Is there something you want _me_ to say to _you_?”  


“Nope.”  


Kylo moves to stand, and Poe glares daggers at him, commanding him back down without a single word. They lock gazes for a while, and then Poe drains the remnants of his bottle with his eyes on Kylo, all the while. He makes sure to make a show of it: lips around the neck, his throat swallowing suggestively, then he tosses the bottle to one side and walks off.

He knows Kylo will follow. Kylo probably knows, too, the minute before he does.

***

Kylo follows him all the way to his rooms, and Poe knows this is dumb. He does. He’s drunk, he’s angry, he’s grieving… and he’s pissed off with Kylo for any number of reasons. Not least of which was him leaving ten years ago (his fault, his fault, _his fault_ ), and then waltzing back into his life in a death-mask and an abuse of power he never did when they were lovers with _edgy_ taste in fun.

It was normally Poe in charge, but they had tried it the other way, a few times. Ben hadn’t been comfortable, knowing his Force powers made him too strong. Poe had just loved whatever they got up to, and if Ben wanted to be dominated by a man almost a foot shorter than him with no powers… damn straight he got a power high from controlling someone as strong as Ben Organa-Solo.

So when they get into the room, Poe barks: “Clothes. Off.”

Kylo does this thing he always used to, the head-tilt to one side, like looking or hearing things at an angle would make it make more sense. His hair tumbles, and Poe is struck by a punch of memory to the gut, and he grabs a handful of dark hair, yanking him down to his level. “Did I fucking stammer?”

“No.”  


“Then why aren’t you naked?”  


“You do have hold of my hair.”   


Semantics, again. Poe yanks harder, then lets go and steps back.

Kylo hesitates, and this is always the key moment. The start of any scene, when it can go one of two ways. Ben had always been so unpredictable that some days it had meant he’d have to wrestle him to the bed, hold him down and use him no matter what (knowing, always knowing, that the Force-user could throw him like a ragdoll and break every bone in his body if he wanted to). Some days he’d be that: a wild stallion, needing breaking in. Bucking and mad and frothing and glorious.

Other days, he’d go under. He’d accept the orders, and obey. He’d do some straight off, with a flourish and an intensity, and others he’d waver about before relenting. Both had their appeal. Poe had loved it all.

Poe wonders which Ben - Kylo - he has with him, today. Wonders if it’s the one who needs a firm hand and refuses to surrender until the last, who fights even as he climaxes… or if it’s the Kylo who _wants_ this, and who admits he does, and who loves to be pushed as close to the edge as Poe can take him. He almost wants to make him rebel, just for the excuse to get excessively physical with him. He has a lot of energy of his own to burn off, and none of his partners have ever had quite the stamina or pain-threshold that Ben had.

It’s been a while since he got to play Bad Cop. Quite a while.

Kylo looks away first (second win of the night), and then his hands move to unfasten his shirt. Poe sits on the bed to watch him slowly strip, the low light from the strip across his headboard gloaming into the room. Kylo’s paler than Ben had been, and his broader frame is scarred as it’s revealed. There’s obvious saber-wounds that have drawn red-and-white marks across his hide, and Poe feels sort of angry they exist, but also… good? Good that he didn’t get off scot free.

He hates that he feels that way. Hates.

The taller man hesitates at that point, and Poe… he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. He.. lunges to his feet, and moves in a whirlwind that is likely less whirly than he thinks. He shoves Kylo face-first into the bed, and grabs his wrists and bends them up and between his shoulderblades. Kylo squirms, but he doesn’t fight him off, and Poe sits astride his ass, pinning him down.

“You think you can just come back here - come back and everything is like it was?”  


“No. No… I don’t.”  


“Then what?” One hand around two wrists, and he uses an elbow between his shoulders as a point of force, of pressure. Kylo doesn’t even hiss in pain, accepting it.  


Ben had always been a bit of a pain slut. Poe never fully understood, but he did understand the noises he made. Those noises had always gone straight to his dick, but today it was silent. He presses harder, trying to provoke the response he wants.

“I wanted to come back to get away from the First Order, from Snoke. I wanted to come back to help defeat him. I wanted… to come home.”  


Kylo’s voice is strangely altered, and Poe recognises it. He’s going under, and fast. Poe feels very pleased with that, feels accomplished. He’s still got what it takes, still knows how to push the other man’s buttons. 

The other man is entering that place he normally only goes when Poe’s worked on him for a while. He usually needs restraints and words and some pain to get him to space out, to get him to stop fighting completely. _Hyperspace_ , they call it. Off in a world of his own, parallel to this one, where pain doesn’t hurt and is only a pleasure. 

A nasty part of him wonders if he’s even been there since they broke up. Ten years is a long time, and he’s sure the man’s had a string of lovers, ever since. Maybe he’s had the Order officers take turns on him. Maybe those Knights of his. Maybe…

“You come back because you were sick of keeping it up for them?”  


Kylo stirs, but doesn’t answer.

“They make you make too many decisions? Make you take control?”  


“…yes?” Kylo tries to move again, which isn’t right. He’s supposed to be **under**.

Poe twists his hands harder. “You come home because you wanted to get fucked properly? Fed up of not getting what you want?”

“…I… I didn’t…”  


He’s losing his control over him, and Poe can’t have that. He scoops up the fallen, rust-red shirt and wraps it around Kylo’s face. Wraps it around, covering his eyes, nose, mouth. He’ll still be able to breathe (just), but his vision and mouth will be blocked and muzzled. 

“Needed someone who could really make you take it, like the bitch you are?”  


“Poe!” Kylo starts to buck again, and that’s more like it. That’s better. If he’s coming up, Poe is going to smack him _straight back down again._ “Poe… stop…” 

The words are muffled, and he yanks harder, needing it to hurt. Needing it to. “What’s the matter, _Kylo_ , I thought you liked being blinkered and muzzled. Isn’t that why you wore that helmet? To block out the world, because I wasn’t there to keep you safe from it?”

The man under him starts to fight in earnest, kicking and clawing with his nails, his breathing ragged and panicked. “Stop… please, Poe, **stop**.”

“ _You don’t want me to_.”  


“I - Poe - don’t make me - don’t make me say her name…”  


Her name? _Her_ name? Whose name would that be? There’s no safeword, there never was. Poe has no clue what name he means, and he scratches his nails over Kylo’s side as he continues to gag and blindfold him with his own clothing. “Stop. _Fighting_. You know you want to. You know you **want** me to win. You know–”

He’s sent flying backwards into the wall by an invisible hand - an invisible _Force_ \- and his head bangs against the plasterboard and he reels in shock from the ache of it. Poe puts a hand to his head, feels for blood, finds none. 

Kylo’s fighting the shirt off, his hands arched into claws, and he’s breathing ragged and uncontrolled. Poe watches in some kind of detached horror as his ex all but falls off the bed, holding the shirt to his chest like a security blanket. He won’t look at Poe, and he retreats to the wall.

Great. Just great. Poe stands, feeling pissed. “You should have said you don’t put out.” Okay. Poor choice of words. “Or that you became a coward, too afraid to admit what you want.”

He isn’t sure what part of him has control of his tongue, but it does. And it says these things. And it’s part of him, it has to be. 

“Poe… please. I’msorrry, I’msorryI’msorry…”  


“Just… go. This was a mistake. You’re not the Ben I used to love. Go.”  


He isn’t the Ben. Ben would never have been upset by that, and it’s probably Poe’s hurt pride at realising he made a mistake that fuels his behaviour. It’s certainly nothing sensible. Nothing he’ll want to examine in the light of day.

Hurt brown eyes that _look_ like Ben stare up at him, all broken hair and agony on his face. Poe wants to find some kind of victory in that, some kind of… revenge? Something. But he can’t, all he can feel is sick and cold in the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t have the emotional strength to deal with this. He doesn’t even know if he _wants_ to. This man **hurt him** , so maybe he deserves a bit of hurt in return. 

Ben - Kylo - nods. Nods, and vanishes. He runs out of the block with the shirt held to his chest, and Poe lets himself exhale.

Exhale.

He can’t think for a long, long time.

***

He’s not sure how long he spends refusing to think about it, but it’s a while. The alcohol makes his mood bottom deeper, and his hands in his hair do nothing to soothe his aching head.

It was - he was - dumb. Beyond dumb. He… 

He… shouldn’t have done it. He knows that. He _knew it even as he did it_. No matter who the person was, if you had control over them, you were responsible. No matter if it was a lover, a wingman, a friend, anyone. If you were in command, you acted like it. You didn’t act out your petty grievances, and you didn’t go into it with your faculties dulled with intoxicating substances.

He shouldn’t have even tried to do _anything_ with his head not in the right space, and most assuredly not with the lingering anger and frustration. It was no wonder he’d pushed Kylo to breaking point, and then -

Hah. And then what did he do? He tried to keep going, got upset at the ‘no’, and kicked him to the curb. Kicked him to the curb, when he’d been in hyperspace only moments before. Forced him - triggered? - triggered him to meltdown, then sent him away as **punishment**. Punishment, for daring to have his own damn needs and limits.

Poe can’t believe how assholey he’s been. No. That’s not a strong enough word. He doesn’t even know if there _is_ a word for how much of a fuckhead he’s been, but fuckhead is a good start.

Now Kylo’s out there, likely in sub-drop, alone and abandoned without the slightest bit of aftercare. Even a good session needs aftercare. They might have been crappy at it as kids, but Poe’s grown up now, or so he thought. A good session could lead to a later feeling of dysphoria when the high wore off, and he’d not even given Kylo the high. He’d just…

 **Fuck**.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He’s the _worst_ dominant ever. He doesn’t even fucking deserve the title. You just - you don’t _do_ that. Any of it. It was like a long list of ‘things I really should not do and normally never do’. And he’s fucked up beyond fucked up, and he knows he can’t just hide here and cry like he wants to.

No. The minute he ordered Kylo to do anything was the minute he should have acted like a responsible fucking human being, and not some piss-baby child tantruming all over his ex. Who apparently he still has feelings for. Which manifest as rage.

Kylo will likely never want him near him again, but he still needs - he needs - he has to _apologise._ Has to.

Wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand, Poe staggers up to his feet and sets off.

***

“WHAT.”  


Han Solo is not the happiest of people ever, anyway. See him in the dead of night, drunk, dishevelled, and he’s even less happy clappy.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Poe says, head down. “Is… is your son here?”  


“You know the answer, don’t you?”  


Poe does now.

“And I reckon you’re why he’s currently crying his heart out and won’t let anyone in his room? The kriff is wrong with you? Isn’t it enough that he’s got to live with everyone hating him, but you gotta go and make him hate himself _worse_?”  


Poe chokes, and he forces his tear-red eyes up to the older man. “I screwed up. Real bad. I’m sorry, Mr Solo. I… I was drunk, and stupid, and…”

“Is that Poe?”  


Oh, great. Now Leia has to see him fucking up, too. His career just went straight down the Sarlacc. 

“I’m sorry Gene–”  


“You.” She shoots him a look of pure betrayal.  


A nod.

“You better tell me you came here to apologise to my son.”   


Right now, she’s the mother-in-law, not the boss. Either way, she’s intimidating. Poe nods again, and cowers lower.

“You go stand outside his door, and if he tells you to leave more than three times, you’re leaving,” she snaps. “Wait here.”  


Poe does, as she goes back up to talk to Kylo’s door, presumably. 

Han is still glaring daggers. Poe is just glad Chewie is not here to tear him a new one, or maybe he’d be safer than Han.

Leia comes down, and glares at him some more. “You go apologise for whatever it was you did.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  


He’s only too happy to.

***

“Kylo… Kylo… I know you can hear me. Look. I… I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I was angry, and I was drunk, and I shouldn’t have done what I did to you.”  


Silence.

“It was wrong. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have ever tried anything in that frame of mind. I was angry - you know why I was angry, but this isn’t about me. It’s about… it’s about me being an ass to you.”  


More silence.

“You don’t have to forgive me. I don’t - I don’t deserve it. But. I need you to know I’m sorry, and you _did not_ deserve what I did. And - and - I’m sorry, okay? I am. I was hurt, but it doesn’t excuse anything, and I’ll just… I’ll go, if you want me to. But don’t shut your family out. Alright? They’re here for you, and you shouldn’t be alone.”  


Silence. Then not. “Don’t… want to talk to them.”

Some progress. He presses his forehead to the wooden door. “You… want to talk to me?”

More silence. 

“I… Kylo. I don’t know how to make it up to you, okay? I was taking out my… taking out stupid things on you, and I guess I wanted to punish you for… for leaving and for… you know.”  


“Jakku.  _Finalizer_.”

“Yeah.”  


There’s a terrible pause, and then a click of a latch unhooked. Poe waits a moment before he opens the door, finding Kylo curled into a ball on the bed. He enters slowly, sitting far from him on the edge of the bed. Slow, slow shuffle closer, making sure the close proximity is wanted and welcome. 

“I’m sorry,” Kylo says. “For what I did. I can’t explain it in any way that makes it go away, but I’m sorry.”  


Poe so-so-slowly reaches out for his knee. “I’m sorry, too. Can… can we start over?”

Kylo swallows, and Poe opens his arms up. A pause, again, and then the tall Jedi curls up under his grip. 

“I never stopped loving you,” Kylo whispers. “And. I didn’t.”  


“Didn’t… what?”  


“Let any of them touch me.”  


The way he says it makes him - makes - _oh, Maker_. “…they wanted… to?” Maybe it wasn’t just the sensory deprivation, Poe thinks, as he remembers what he’d said. What he’d _implied_. He’d just meant a flurry of him topping lesser people. He hadn’t meant to imply the other thing.

Kylo curls in tighter. “Doesn’t matter. Home, now.”

It did. It mattered plenty. Poe is going to ensure every last one of them dies a bloody death. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Home now,” Kylo repeats, and Poe realises he’s still not wholly surfaced from before. That off-key tone in his voice, the signs his head is battered somewhat. He has no desire to take advantage of it, so he tells him: “Wait there.”  


Wait there, and he pushes the pillows up against the headboard, making a nest. He doesn’t want to injure Kylo any more than he already has, so he opens his arms to offer. Offer, not demand. 

Kylo squirms up, lies against his side, and puts his head on Poe’s shoulder.

“Home now,” Poe agrees. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again, not if I can help it.”  


He’s not sure if that means ‘together’, or just ‘I’ll protect you’, but he… well. He’s going to. He owes him that much, if nothing else. Fingers stroke and stroke, and soon Kylo relaxes into his touches. Relaxes, and the tension bleeds out, and his breathing goes even and sure. 

After a while, he hears footsteps. The door creaks lightly open, and Leia looks in. Two fully-dressed men on her son’s bed, cuddling, with Kylo not quite with it. It must look terrible, but it could have been a lot worse.

“You make sure you don’t do that again,” Leia threatens, low and level.  


“I promise, I promise, I won’t.” Not ever. He wouldn’t ever hurt Kylo again. They could talk their problems through in the light of day, not right now. Maybe they could even get over them, if they bothered to try. He thinks he wants to. No.   


He knows.

“Take **care** of him,” Leia adds, and then walks away.  


Yeah. So going to talk it through in the morning. If nothing else, he owes it to how much he used to love Ben. He owes him that much, and he falls asleep shortly after the Jedi does, snorting softly against his side. 

***

When he wakes, Kylo is still there.

“So.”  


“So.”  


“We need to _talk_.”  



End file.
